


Two Million Years

by Lowley



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 04:25:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12225708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lowley/pseuds/Lowley
Summary: John waited. He waited and he waited for his best friend to walk through the doors. He kept telling himself- 'Tomorrow. Tomorrow for sure.' and still, his detective never came home.





	1. No-one Lives in 221B

**Author's Note:**

> This is my own take on how Sherlock came home. It's different to The Empty Hearse.

The silence engulfed him. It was too much but John didn't do anything about it, he just sat there; across from the leather seat that waited for his owner. John waited for the owner too, he waited for the famous Sherlock Holmes to come sauntering in the doors of 221B Baker Street- exclaiming that he had tricked everyone and succeeded. Laughing that everyone was fooled. Ranting about how he had been testing them all on how far they'd be pushed. Telling John that he wasn't dead...that his heart was still beating. If only. If only his Detective would come back sooner, John was tired of waiting but he was still hopeful. Still hopeful for a glance of a head full of curly hair. A neck hidden by a turned up coat collar. A scarf of blue. John looked everywhere- out of the window at the busy London streets, on his way to the shops that he would always come home empty handed. John Watson always looked over his shoulder or out the corner of his eye on his way back to the empty flat he called a home. Sherlock Holmes was smart, clever and cunning. No matter what Sherlock had told him on the phone before- well, before- John still couldn't think about it. It cut him open inside, exposing wounds that had healed since his first meeting with the Detective.

John Watson never did anything now, he barely noticed the visitors- Greg, Molly, Mrs Hudson and occasionally Mycroft. All not really speaking, or they did and John filtered. Greg was under strict instructions from John that Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson were never to contact him in any way, for all John cared- they could go die in a hole for what they did. He blamed them for making Sherlock disappear, them and Moriarty...he also blamed himself...he blamed himself for staying where he was when he should have run up and grabbed Sherlock down. He should have protested for Sherlock to stop.

John could blame everyone on this scum earth but it wouldn't bring Sherlock home any quicker. He just sat across from the vacant leather seat, waiting. And waiting. Pouring two cups of tea in case of his return but the two cups of tea always went stone cold...never a sip was taken from either of them...but the bottle of vodka that sat on the kitchen table grew less and less each day. One drink. Two drinks. Three drinks...ten drinks. And it still didn't mask the pain, nothing did. The silence ate away at him like a vulture sensing his failing body and weakened mind, ready to finish him off completely.

"Tomorrow," John whispered as he tore his gaze away from the door and to the watch that ticked endlessly on his wrist. "Please come home tomorrow." And he moved across the rug and curled up on the cold leather seat, breathing in the scent that was starting to fade slightly. It had been a month and John couldn't find anything to stop the smell of Sherlock from disappearing. Try as he might, Sherlock used nothing but Johns aftershaves and body sprays and John was sick of himself, he didn't want the smell of himself; John wanted the smell of Sherlock 

Everything was dark even though John lay with his eyes open, his whole world was dark. The fire was burning out and it was only a matter of time before it burnt out completely but only the hope of Sherlock Holmes walking through the doors kept him alive. Hoping. Wishing. Waiting for his best friend to come home to him.


	2. What I want?

John blinked sleepily as he rose from the seat he had spent the lonely night on. Mrs Hudson had been in some time before as a tray of cold tea sat on the table next to Johns seat. John wrinkled his nose at the thought of Mrs Hudson coming in while he had unwillingly passed out. He exhaled deeply while sitting up and rubbing his face with his hands, his eyes flickered to his watch- 12:04. John couldn't help but smile gratefully as it meant that he lost a few hours of painful waiting and that's what today was again- painful waiting.

"Yoohoo?" Mrs Hudson knocked softly on the already open door, she entered automatically and smiled as John took her in. She too looked tired and puffy eyed, why would she cry over Sherlock? He kept her up at godforsaken hours, damaged her property, yelled constantly and was always a complete and utter arse...well, sometimes. "How are you doing today John?"

John blinked out of his thoughts, "Hmm? Oh, umm, I'll get back to you on that." He said very quietly.

Mrs Hudson bit her lip as her eyes darted all around the flat, John sensed that she wasn't happy about something but he couldn't be bothered to ask. "I see you didn't drink your tea." Mrs Hudson said as she walked over and felt the cup.

"Well, yes, I've just woke up." John frowned, just noticing that there was only one filled cup while the other lay empty. "You brought two cups..."

"Of course I did John, you're not the only one wishing." Her voice quivered slightly.

"Why would you miss him? He was a complete coc- um, prat to you." John corrected himself quickly, remembering that Mrs Hudson didn't like that word.

She nodded. "Completely but I wouldn't change him for the world." She carefully sat down across from John and looked at him tenderly. "I miss him dearly. I wish every day for the sound of that violin playing at godly hours." Mrs Hudson looked shyly at her lap. "I sometimes wish for the sound of bullets being shot into the wall." The pair of them shared a weak chuckle.

John remembered something, his mind was still really heavy and fuzzy but a question played in his mind. One that he couldn't remember if it had been answered. He took a sharp breath. "Mycroft? Is- how's he doing?"

"He is alright from Greg told me. Doesn't come round much."

"Well, why would he? He doesn't really need me anymore." John said coldly, standing up and stretching slightly. Mrs Hudson stood up after him, ready to speak but John stopped her. "Look, I'm not in the mood to talk anymore. I've got a lot to do today-"

"Like what?"

"Hmm? Uh, stuff- getting back to work I suppose," He glanced over at the kitchen where the vodka bottle still waited for him. An hour, at the least, John thought.

Mrs Hudson ignored Johns longing gaze. "You mean looking for work?"

John Watson frowned and turned to Mrs Hudson. "What? What do you mean?"

"I don't expect you remember but a few weeks ago, you're boss- Mary Morstan something. She came over after months of silence from you and thought it best you didn't go back as you are depressed and have a drinking habit-"

"I do not have a drinking habit!" John snapped. "And I'm not depressed!" Mrs Hudson's face softened which made John twitch angrily, he was tired of the looks of sympathy. It was enough to make anyone drink. "Great so now I don't have a job?"

"I'm sorry John, I'll help you look for one if you want? I know that you're still grieving and I'll do anything to make you feel better, help you back on your feet- forget about rent for a while. Anything you want."

"You want to know what I want?" He turned forcefully to look Mrs Hudson in the eyes, the glaze of sadness that covered hers reflected his own. "I want Sherlock back, that's what I want."


	3. Still No Sherlock

Another month had dragged on and still no sign of Sherlock. Everyone was growing intensely worried about John Watson who now refused to leave the flat, convinced that when where he went out- Sherlock came home and found that John wasn't there then left again. John lived off a few bits of food now and again and various alcoholic drinks which Mrs Hudson or Lestrade would switch with water when John was completely wasted and still going for more- never knowing the difference. Mycroft Holmes had disappeared which everyone was pissed about but understanding why, they left him be.

"What are we going to do?" Lestrade hissed to Mrs Hudson and Molly as one of their weekly checkups had started. The two women shrugged helplessly. "He's gonna destroy himself- He's already destroying himself."

"He's starting to get angry now- throwing books at the wall, smashed that old chemistry set the other night." Mrs Hudson mumbled. "He still pours two cups of tea, the poor sod-"

"He still thinks Sherlock is going to come home." Lestrade added.

Molly leaned against the counter of Mrs Hudson's small kitchen. "He's gonna kill himself- one day when we're not looking, he's gonna pull that trigger of a hidden gun he's kept from us. Or we're gonna find him dead on the floor." The group shivered at Hooper's words. 

Mrs Hudson excused herself to the bathroom and Lestrade turned to Molly. "I thought you loved Sherlock?"

"Oh, ye-Um, who told you that?"

Greg shrugged. "Fairly obvious. But he was your friend anyway, why aren't you affected like John- well, not as affected."

"I am. I am sad about it but it's different for John."

Greg Lestrade chuckled, wrapping his arm around Molly's shoulder. "If I didn't know you any better, I'd think you were hiding him after all this time."

"Ha, ha..." Molly chuckled lowly.

"Sorry, that wasn't exactly fair. I'm just- you know."

And the day would continue. Nothing resolved. Nothing fixed. Still with a broken John.

Clients would occasionally come up and ring the doorbell once but every single one of them would get turned away, being told that they needed to stop coming or else. When they would ring the doorbell, John would run to the window- hoping that Sherlock was in disguise, coming in with a story- a case- about a murder, or a great scandal and in the middle of telling his problem, he would then reveal himself. A smile on his face. Eyes sparkling of pride for being able to pull off that type of trick. Claiming that he was the Detective that John had met in Barts, rude and cocky. Marvellous and complicated. Safe and alive.

Something over the past weeks had sparked John's interest, something that hadn't happened to his drunken mind in ages. To learn the violin. Sherlocks to be exact. It took him a few days, really not wanting to touch the dusty instrument that lay out of its case, knowing fine well that Sherlock would slap him if he had touched the violin. Maybe if he played and Sherlock heard him playing so badly that the noise would be enough to drive him back home so he could mark all of Johns flaws as he played.

"I could only try and see if it would work." John whispered as he picked up the cold instrument and rested it against his neck. John had watched Sherlock play many times, a few lessons here and there- being next to the Detectives warm body felt safe and familiar, something that John hadn't felt in ages. Sherlock's voice, calming and strong, rang throughout Johns mind in a booming echo.


	4. FlashBack

"No! What are you doing?" The Consulting Detective roared, snatching the bow from Johns grasp.

"I'm doing what you told me too."

"No. No. Tha-yo-STOP IT!" Sherlock pulled the violin from Johns other hand and held the instrument carefully. "That...wasn't playing. That was- I'm not sure what that was but it wasn't playing." He cradled the violin in his arms. "Playing should be as if you're drawing- slowly and precise."

"It's not a baby Sherlock." John laughed, folding his arms across his chest.

Sherlock frowned, "I know it's not. I wouldn't be holding it if it was." He slid past John and stood at his music stand. "Now- ahem- this is how you play."

"Go on then." John took a seat. "Impress me." He watched, eyes glued as the Detective began to delicately drag the bow across the violin strings. John Watson listened to the sweet melody that was being played- it was one he had heard before. One that Sherlock had rudely woke him up too. John wasn't exactly angry about it, it was a night filled with a lot of nightmares and Sherlocks sweet music would wake him up and quickly soothe him. He never told Sherlock about the nightmares, he had a feeling that Sherlock would laugh at him but also, if he asked, would curl up with him to keep him safe.

Sherlock Holmes beamed brightly as he finished playing and placed the violin back into the case. He took a seat across from John who watched him happily. "We're just a couple of old fools aren't we?" Sherlock muttered.

"Happy old fools I'd bet."

"Oh, yes, of course. Very much." Sherlock mumbled. "What is the matter with you?" 

"The matter- nothing is the matter with me?"

"You just seem so distant. What's wrong?"

John waved Sherlock off. "It's nothing. Just thoughts."

"Are you mad that I showed off with the violin? I keep telling you John, I am skilled in many ways-"

"Oh. Stop blowing your own horn!" John laughed, throwing a scrunched up piece of paper towards Sherlock- hitting him square on the forehead.

Sherlock chewed his lip out of embarrassment of not moving fast enough so that John would have missed. "Apparently you win at aim." He huffed, throwing the paper ball back and watched as it landed at Johns' feet. He ignored Johns laugh. "Oh shut up. I'm not good at everything. Cause if I was, what would be the fun in that?"

"God, you're such a child aren't you?" John chuckled into his hand that covered his mouth slightly. "I thought that the great Sherlock Holmes knew everything?"

"I do know everything."

"...except the solar system."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the teasing. "Everything of importance." He sprung up. "Tea?"

"Hmm, yes, please. No-"

"I know how you take it." Sherlock said absentmindedly as he disappeared into the kitchen.


	5. Chapter 5

John Watson stared at the empty teacup- a small, flower printed one with a chip in the handle. The one Sherlock would normally drink out of when he had company.

"I know how you take it." Sherlock's voice echoed in his mind. John clenched his hands into fists and held his breath until the beating of his pulse violently drowned out the Detectives voice. "Everything of importance." His voice was going strong. 

John breathed out and shook his head. "Shut up. Just shut up..."

"We're just a pair of old fools-"

"Shut up!" John roared, taking hold of the cup and throwing it at the wall. The smashing of the cup broke Sherlock's voice that played in his head, John twitched as he gathered himself- watching the scattered broken teacup. "...what have I done?" He mumbled, falling to the ground and tried to pick up the pieces. A hot burning tear escaped his eye and began its treacherous path down Johns' cheek which he wiped away quickly. "Stop being a dick Sherlock...just come home. Please."

"John?" Lestrade poked his head around the corner, his eyes dropped to John who sat on the floor, trying to gather the remains of the once cup. "Oh, John. No again."

"I knocked it." John sighed, getting to his feet.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "And it happened to fly and land next to the door? Come on John, sit down." Lestrade pulled John to his seat.

"I'm not a child Greg-"

"Well, you're bloody acting like one!" John looked sharply at Greg who closed his eyes and shook his head before speaking more calmly. "You gotta start working to get over this. It's been months."

"Yeah well, you try losing a friend then."

"I did."

John frowned. "A best friend."

"I did."

"Sherlock wasn't-"

"I'm not talking about Sherlock," Lestrade said softly. John straightened up, a sign for him to continue. "It was years ago but he was my best friend all the same. Granted he didn't have a choice in dying."

"Hold on, what do you mean? Sherlock didn't have a choice."

"John, Sherlock committed suicide. He did have a choice."

John Watson shook his head forcefully. "No, something happened up on that rooftop and Sherlock out-smarted Moriarty. He pulled the fool over us eyes so he could escape, he's out there-" Lestrade dropped his gaze. "Greg, he's alive. I know it."

"That's exactly what I thought too John-"

"About your other friend?"

"No," Greg looked up at John. "About Sherlock. I thought that he was going to come back. He's not coming home, John."

"No, he is. One day. You- I- Just give him time." John went silent and so did Greg. And the two men stayed that way for a while.

John blinked away his daydream and looked at Greg who still sat across from him in the red chair- John hadn't realised that he had been sitting in Sherlock's seat, it felt odd to do that in the presence of somebody else. "Sometimes I think he's dead..." John said softly.

Greg looked up at the sudden break of silence. "Hmm?"

"But other times, I just don't believe it. I mean, he's Sherlock Holmes. He isn't that easy to get rid of." He fiddled with his fingernail. "...I know you all think I'm crazy. Or that I'm going crazy but I believe that he's still out there...I still believe in Sherlock Holmes. Why doesn't everyone else? I need him home, I need him back. I've lost apart of myself that I never knew I had." His voice wavered. "Why did he have to go? Why did he have to leave me?" A tear ran down Johns' cheek but he didn't go to wipe it away this time.


End file.
